Salvation
by Anna-Salem
Summary: Erik's life is about to change...Based on the original book and the musical.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: This is a tale of the despair, tragedy, and deliverance of Erik, the Phantom of the Opera.Based on the book by Gaston LeRoux, and also the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. But, most of this is my own, so hardly any of it is canon. Enjoy!  
  
What would it be like to taste death? To savor its sweet nothingness; let the blackness engulf him. Erik drifted, his mind wandering ever further into the pits of his black despair. He often willed death to come on nights such as this. He opened his eyes and saw darkness, but it was not complete darkness. There was the faint light of the moon overhead, the glimmer of stars. Reaching out a cold hand, he grasped one of the thick, metal bars of his cage. Shuddering, he pulled back. A dull pain began to wash over him. He remembered the beating he'd received earlier, just before nightfall. His limbs ached, and he was sure one of his ribs was cracked, if not broken.  
  
"Monster," one of the men had called him before kicking him squarely in the stomach. Alonso, the show master, had ordered the men to take him out and punish him for not doing as he was told. Erik snorted at this. He was proud, and did not show pain while the men beat him. And they continued to beat him; that is, until he allowed them one, satisfying moan. It was a cry of heartache and desperation more than physical pain, but the men couldn't tell the difference. They hauled him back to his cage, threw him inside, and left him alone.  
  
Such hurt, Erik thought to himself, such violence. All because I wouldn't allow them the pleasure of hearing my music.  
  
He grimaced. Alonso had promised him that no harm would come to him if he were to only play for his supper. Of course, there would be spectators, people watching carefully, but at least there would not be pain.  
  
But oh, Monsieur, there was pain. There was pain in every note that he wrought on that wretched violin. Each string contained a world of agony for him. And though music was his hope and comfort, to play before the incompetents who would come to stare at him brought only grief.  
  
How had he come to such a fate? There was a time when he had been almost happy. He had been content, if nothing else. Content to live in his little home in the hills of Germany. There, no one had bothered him, no one had ridiculed him. And then one day, he had decided that the little home in Germany would not do. He had to explore the world before him. How young and foolish he'd been in thinking that the world outside his cottage would treat him fairly. By night, he had traveled on foot through most of the country. But, before he had the chance to reach the borders, he'd been captured by a group of rogues. They studied his mask carefully, and a bold one had ripped it away. Cowering, Erik pulled back, but the men pursued him; that was the first of his many defeats.  
  
Now, as he stared out from the bars of his prison, he knew that there was nothing left for him. If only his life were to end, then he would be free of his torment. Unknown to him, there was something much greater waiting for him, something beyond the cage. The world was coming to claim him. 


	2. Another Day

Dawn broke upon the camp. Men scurried here and there; some preparing the morning meal, others setting up the tents and booths. The fire burned brightly, still, and the smell of stew was thick in the air. Erik felt his hunger swell within him. It had been too long since his last meal, much too long.  
  
Alonso, the fat, beady-eyed show master, approached his cage. His eyes sneered, but his fleshy face remained unmoved. He was dressed in the colored extremes of many a Gypsy performer, though he himself had no talent but the handling of money. He spoke with a heated rasp.  
  
"You did not play yesterday," he said plainly. "If you wish to enjoy life, my friend, I urge you to play today." Erik did not look away. Though one of his eyes was partially concealed by his mask, he steadily held the gaze of the other man. Alonso became uneasy. He handed Erik the battered violin, which he accepted with a curt nod. "You will play."  
  
The crowd had already begun to gather, though it was still early in the day. There seemed to be a whisper that lingered throughout the show. A nobleman, someone of high birth, was said to be attending that very afternoon. Though no one in the crowd looked to be anything but common, there was still a restlessness to impress whoever it was that was rumored to be there. Erik, though, was indifferent. If he were forced to play his music, then it would be for his own gratification and no one else's.  
  
The crowd clambered around the camp, whispering and clapping, cheering and booing good-naturedly. They seemed to enjoy themselves.  
  
For once in their pathetic lives, Erik thought to himself. They reached his cage, and Alonso took on an air of wisdom as he explained.  
  
"This, ladies and gentlemen, is the final attraction. A skilled poet, a remarkable architect, but, a man with the face of the devil himself. It is too horrifying to lay eyes on, so we hide it with a mask of the purest white. My fair companions, may I present a composer who is scarred only in appearance. . . Monsieur Monster!" On his cue, Erik rose from the straw, threw back his tattered cape, and took up the worn violin. The crowd gasped, then hushed, anticipating the first note. He did not disappoint. Though the strings weren't smooth, though the instrument was in poor condition, Erik gently played the first pitch. His skilled fingers softened the vibrato to a hushed murmur of sound that echoed through the bars of the cage. The crowd was still, the note entrancing them. Then, without warning, Erik erupted in a fit of chords, the violin reaching out to strike an emotion close to fear in the hearts of the people. He played with passion and fury, each note more beautiful and powerful, until he abruptly ended with the same, soothing sound with which he had begun. The people cheered, for they had been stirred to tears by the passion that surged out of the old violin. Erik took no bow, no credit for that matter, but ran a hand through his short, dark hair.  
  
"He is extraordinary!" A man shouted. "Where did you find such a creature?"  
  
Alonso, still beaming with pride, turned to face the man. Erik almost chuckled to himself. What brilliant lie would he have to tell? What heart- wrenching story would he concoct to spill forth to the listeners? Surely the truth would not do. Oh no. The abduction of a man, forcing him to play against his will, that would not do at all.  
  
"I found him. . .In the furthest regions of Greece. He was living in a cave, surviving on the flesh of wild animals that he caught and killed with his hands. He knew nothing of the ways of civilized man, only the ways he'd been taught at a young age." The flock seemed to be enjoying his tale. "There, I introduced him to the arts. He was a genius! But, he is so very dangerous. That is why he must be kept in such a cage."  
  
Erik laughed; a sneering, contemptuous laugh. The crowd took it for the laugh of a madman. But one man, the man who had asked that riveting question, he stood apart. He gazed at him with almost tenderness. Certainly it was not, for no person had ever shown him tenderness. Most certainly the look he gave was one of pity, and no more. The man turned to Alonso, and began to whisper things to him. Alonso became angry, and stormed away. The man gave one last, puzzling glance in Erik's direction, before he, too, departed with the crowd. 


	3. Negotiating

That night, long after the crowd had dispersed, after the tents had been cleared away, Alonso came to visit him. He opened the door of the cage, slowly, but seemingly without fear.  
  
"You are a genius, my friend," he handed Erik a bowl of stew leftover from the early morning meal. "I hope my lies did not offend you?" Erik took the bowl and spoon, and tasted the food. It was plain, but he knew that it would squelch the pains in his empty stomach. Alonso continued, "Today you played very well. What made you change your mind? Surely it was not the beating."  
  
Erik paused. He looked up from his meal, and said softly, "I play for no one but myself. You mistake my music for something much greater."  
  
"Ah," his pig-eyes searched Erik's, "But there was rumor of a nobleman about. Did that not spark your will to play?" Erik shook his head. He finished the small bowl. Alonso retrieved it from him, and handed him a bucket of fresh water. He accepted it gratefully. Pulling down a flap of material over the cage, Alonso bid him goodnight.  
  
The next morning began very much like the previous. In fact, most mornings were the same. Erik was sure that he had been traveling with the group for at least ten years, or so it felt. But, in reality, it had only been three years since his capture. And, in that three years, Erik had sunken into himself. When he had lived alone, he'd had his beautiful little piano, his flowers, his own mahogany violin. Those had been the days when he did things for himself, pleased himself in the only ways he knew how. Now, it became harder and harder for him to find comfort. . .  
  
The crowd gathered in front of his cage. Erik surveyed them from behind his mask. His cool brown eyes weren't trusting; for, Erik trusted no one. He played, his bow moving across the strings almost of its own accord. He never played the same tune twice, for he believed that such a thing would drive him mad. This day, he chose to play a sweeping aria, meant for two players. He played both parts easily. The people were amazed at his ability. One man, in particular, was engrossed. It was the same man who had lagged behind the day before. Erik studied him, hardly paying attention to what he was playing. The man was of small stature, maybe a few inches shorter than himself. He wore common clothing, but he had light hair, and the light complexion most customary in a man of. . .wealth.  
  
Perhaps, Erik thought calmly to himself, this is the noble who the gossips predicted would grace us with his presence. He turned his thoughts from the young man to the music, realizing he had played far longer than he ever had before. He stopped suddenly, blasting forth with a surprisingly high note, and ended the piece. The audience cheered. He was tired, so he returned the violin to the little shelf of his cage.  
  
***  
  
"No! I will not give away my most prized performer!" Alonso's voice rose angrily. He looked the younger man over incredulously, "How dare you even ask?"  
  
The young man shook his head wearily. "Your most prized performer? How come, then, is the poor man kept in a cage like a beast? He should be treated with the utmost respect. A man of his talent, wasting away in your clutches."  
  
"What concern is it of yours? Did you not hear the story, how I found him living like an animal-"  
  
The young man cut him off sharply, "Oh yes, I heard that story. I also heard the tale of when you and he were traveling companions. He was struck on the head by a falling rock, rendering him highly temperamental and scarred, but retaining all of his former talents. Please, sir, no more nonsense. Tell me the truth. You captured him. Because of his face, no one would miss him?"  
  
Alonso was without words. "Well-I was. . ."  
  
"If you please, I would like to take him away from all of this. He deserves much more than the cruel cage that you've given him. I can give him a stage, a dressing room. I can make him the renowned composer he is worthy to be."  
  
Alonso relented to the young man. "Who are you?"  
  
"Baron Von Ulrichstein. The key, if you please." 


	4. Whisked Away

Erik gazed forlornly toward the firelight. It was their last night in that town, and he knew they would be packing up and moving to a new place. To what new place, he wasn't sure. He wasn't privy to any useful information, only the gossip of the small-minded performers. Most, though, had chosen to stay away from him; in part because of his bizarre appearance, and also because they knew if they helped him in any way, they would be punished. One young man, a boy who tended the packhorses, talked to him occasionally. Erik tolerated him. The boy was quiet, shy, and was only interested in Erik as a quiet companion to share stories with. He, Erik had found, was the only real companion he'd ever had; though they rarely spoke to each other of themselves, and knew barely anything about one another.  
  
"What is your name, sir?" A gentle voice called into his cage. It was the man whom he'd seen several times, always with an expression of wonder imprinted upon his face. Erik wasn't sure if he should respond.  
  
"They call me 'Monsieur Monster,' but I hardly think that was the answer you were looking for," Erik's reply bordered on sarcasm. His voice was hollow.  
  
"Your Christian name?" His light blue eyes reflected sadness, his softly rounded face held an innocence. Erik knew that he meant no harm.  
  
"Erik."  
  
"Erik? You are a marvel. Please, let me help you out of there," the man produced the set of keys that Erik had watched dangle in front of him many times. They were the show master's keys. The door to the cage came swiftly open, and Erik hesitated before climbing out. "Sir, I should like to take you with me."  
  
He was dumbfounded. The man was offering him an escape? Where was Alonso? Surely he wouldn't let him go without a good say in it.  
  
"I am sure," the man said, "that you are a little bewildered at such a turn of events. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron Von Ulrichstein, from neighboring Kienburg. I have paid a good sum of money for your freedom." He led Erik through the gates, the performers all staring in shock at his casual departure. Alonso stood, fuming and helpless, at the door of his wagon. Erik turned to him, and gave a slight bow, a hint of malice behind the gesture. They found a simple carriage awaiting them. Erik remained quiet as he continued.  
  
"You may also be wondering why I am dressed this way? It is not a suitable pastime for young barons to be traipsing about circus shows. Especially young barons from elsewhere. My attendants have watched closely, in the event that I was discovered. But, I had managed to keep my identity a secret, though my coming was not." His tone was pleasant. Erik only nodded. It was then that he recalled the stable boy, and had wished he had remembered the say goodbye to him. He remained quiet, trying to take in all that the young man was telling him, and everything that had happened in such a short while. No more beatings, no more playing his music for strangers. It was gone from his life. And, as the carriage traveled down the bumpy road, these uplifting thoughts were spinning through his head. For once, he was filled with hope. Little did he know, these thoughts were far from reality. He would not escape the past so easily. 


	5. From One Cage To Another

The two sat across from each other in the plain, little carriage. The Baron's cloak looked worn, though not nearly as ragged as Erik's. He noticed this, and waved off Erik's wariness with a smile.  
  
"I'm taking you to the court in Kienburg, I'm sure we can find you some decent clothing there," he winked. "Believe me, we would not want you wandering around like that." Erik suddenly became aware of the mask that covered a good half of his face. The Baron didn't seem to note his discomfort this time, and Erik was relieved. He didn't like the thought of a man such as the Baron reading his thoughts. He still didn't trust him, but that was to be expected. Erik trusted no one.  
  
They reached the courts in a matter of hours, though he wasn't sure exactly where the courts were located. He'd never heard of such a place. It was near midnight, the sky covered by a thin veil of cloud. The Baron helped Erik out of the carriage, careful of the pain that was still obviously afflicting his side. There was a wariness in his step, a caution in his words. Something about the situation didn't fit to Erik; like it had been too easy to get away from three years worth of suffering.  
  
Inside, attendants rushed the greet them. Most tried not to look Erik in the face, others did, and quickly looked away again. They took their cloaks and the Baron's hat.  
  
"My friend," he used the same words Alonso had used, but in a more endearing manner, "if you would follow me, I'll show you to your room. . ."  
  
Erik almost gasped. His room? It had been a long while since he had slept in a bed, and an even longer while since he had set foot inside a place such as the court of Kienburg. It was a stately, beautiful place. Leaded crystal chandeliers lined the ceilings, gilded gold the walls. The floors were of a fine marble. It echoed wealth and dignity. The room, his room, held a magnificent four- poster bed. The draperies hung, rich and thick, against an ebony windowpane. The walls shimmered with gold trimming. There was even a delicate wash basin, porcelain, with dainty carvings strewn across it. He was astonished by the raw opulence that lie before him. It was unnerving.  
  
"You will find, Erik, everything that you'd ever need. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we will discuss your duties here. Goodnight." The Baron exited quickly from the room. Erik wondered what his 'duties' would entail. Before he had the chance to think about what the Baron had said, he heard the clank of a lock as the door was bolted. He was locked in. Erik stood, dismayed, before regaining his senses and skittering to the window. It, too, was locked. And what's more, it was barred. He was trapped. 


	6. MidMorning Meal

A/N: Thanks very much to the reviewers. I appreciate your comments.I would like to clear things up for the one who has been confused (*wink*) I have often thought that the age of Erik is either irrelevant or meant to be ambiguous. Therefore, I really didn't think that it was necessary to provide the age. But, now that you mention it, I think that in this chapter, I'll present a deeper description of Erik. Why the heck not? (Giggle) He's a handsome fella' (giggle again) Thank you for your thoughtful comments.  
  
The Baron slowly unlocked the door, careful not to disturb his guest. He heard not a sound from the dark room. It was past ten o' clock, and he was sure Erik would be up, but the heavy curtains were drawn, the bed's curtains as well. He crept into the room, and noticed that the bed hadn't been slept in at all. But, there in the corner, was Erik, huddled up to the wall. The Baron sighed.  
  
"Erik? Please, wake up," he gently prodded the jumbled form. Erik awoke, startled, and inched away, a hand covering his masked face. Realizing where he was, the hand retreated to its resting place on his lap. "Did you sleep well? From the looks of it, I'd say not."  
  
"You. . .locked the door," Erik said simply.  
  
"For your safety. There are thieves everywhere, and I wouldn't want them to alarm you."  
  
He nodded, and stood up. The Baron took note of his appearance. He was not too tall, but he had strong shoulders, and a fine, aristocratic stance. He looked young, his exposed face not touched by the lines of age, his eyes youthful. Of course, there was the other half of his face. . .  
  
"Would you care to join us for the mid-morning meal? There is plenty of clothing in the bureau; you may take whatever you like. But, I'd like my tailor to make some things for you, if you don't mind," the Baron chattered easily. He pushed back a length of blonde hair with a daintily white-gloved hand. "I shall expect you?"  
  
Erik narrowed his eyes before answering. He still wasn't sure. Something inside of him, an instinct, told him that the Baron wasn't what he seemed. But, another part of him wanted to trust, wanted to accept his gifts and hospitality.  
  
"Yes, you can expect me to join you."  
  
**  
  
The ladies and the gentlemen of the court gathered for the mid-morning meal. It was a tradition to wake up after the sun was up, to dress in the latest fashions, and flirt with a prominent visitor. These were the daily goings-on at the place. All in all, the Baron was very bored.  
  
He sat at the head of the table, looked down his nose at the expanse of food. There seemed to be a great bit of gossip going on between the ladies. They sipped coffee and tea, some sipped brandy, as they waited for Von Ulrichstein to commence the meal. But he, in turn, was also waiting. And he was becoming greatly impatient.  
  
"Baron," Edwin smiled haughtily. Edwin Firthim was a close friend. He had been an advisor to his parents while they had been living, and remained an advisor to him. "When will your guest be coming down to breakfast?"  
  
"How many times have I told you, Edwin, call me by my first name. You are like family to me!" He flashed a charming smile. "And, as for my guest, he is set to be arriving any. . ." As if on cue, Erik appeared at the doorway. There was a torrent of gasps, a flood of whispers. He seemed to ignore them, and instead sat at the end of the table. The Baron nodded to him, grateful at his arrival. His company twittered in excitement.  
  
Edwin was the first to speak up, "Welcome! Please, my interesting friend, tell us your name."  
  
Erik held back a sardonic reply, and offered his name willingly. Several waited for a last name, but he didn't supply it. It was Edwin who asked him other questions. He answered as best he could, leaving out bits and pieces of his life, until he had fashioned something that resembled the life he'd lived before his capture.  
  
"You've had a charmed existence, Erik," the Baron smiled, knowing better than to reveal the truth. "And, you are welcome here always. You may eat, now."  
  
They filled their plates with pastries, fruits, pies, and thick breads. Erik watched as they slathered on mountains of butter and syrup. His stomach turned. He swallowed a bit of tea, and took a bite of a piece of bread. Edwin watched him carefully, wiping away a blotch of cherry sauce that decorated his cheek.  
  
"Aren't you hungry? I'm sure your journey was long."  
  
Erik turned to him, biting back his eagerness to lash out at him with an acerbic comment. "Surely, but I'm afraid that the voyage has left my appetite a bit uneasy." Many watched him carefully as he spoke, bewildered, perhaps, that he could speak. He was dressed admirably, and he was freshly groomed. He knew that they were interested in him because he looked to have money.  
  
"Tonight," the Baron began jauntily," there will be a wonderful performance. My friend Erik is a brilliant composer, and he will be the entertainment for this evening."  
  
Erik's head snapped up. Entertainment? So, he was to play his music for a group of prattling twits.  
  
"Baron? I'm afraid that I cannot play for you tonight. I haven't brought my violin."  
  
"Oh, I think you are mistaken, friend. I have a lovely one for you. And you will play," there was a menacing look in the young man's eyes. He truly meant it, and Erik was hopeless against his wishes in front of such powerful people. He drank some more tea, and tried to finish his bread, but his appetite just wasn't there.  
  
**  
  
He went back to his room, and crawled into the bed. It was unusually comfortable, and he wasn't used to it. So, he decided to go back to his space on the hard, wooden floor. Still, he sank into the coldness of it, welcomed the dark nothingness that consumed him once more. There had been nothing but manipulation since he'd arrived, and yet he didn't think he could leave. That same instinct that had warned him before was rising again. This time, he knew that it was dangerous to try to leave. 


	7. Turning the Tide

Erik snuffed as the young Baron entered his room. It was the second time, and his visits were quickly tiring. The little snort caused a searing pain to shoot through his side. He regained his breath.  
  
"Please, Erik, allow me to explain," the Baron caught the heat from his eyes. "The ladies and gentleman here, they're not used to. . . guests. Especially those of your nature."  
  
"You brought me from one prison to another. I do not appreciate your 'charity,' though you might think I should. And I shall not repay it."  
  
The Baron was taken aback by Erik's sudden change of subject. "Of course, I didn't mean for you to repay anything. It's just that you have marvelous talents, and I'm sure there is much more hiding within you. Don't you want to be respected for these talents? Don't you want the crowd to be awed, not by some simple ringmaster's fairy stories, but by your true gifts?"  
  
Erik had to admit that the young man's words were charming. "I have never thought of it. . . I've only wanted to play for myself, and I see no talent. But others, they do?"  
  
"Don't be so naïve," the Baron scolded him. "You know your strengths. And you know the power you hold over people. Please, use it to your advantage for once? I told you I would allow you to stay here for as long as you wished. On this condition: you must use your genius. Share it with my following. Teach them, woo them, and in doing so, you'll have broken that barrier you've spent so long putting up."  
  
Erik thought to himself about all that this young man was saying. There could be endless possibilities for him. Though he'd spent most of his life in solitude and captivity, he knew that this was his chance to free himself of his inner torment. Though, he knew, his face was another matter.  
  
As if on second thought, he said, "What is your first name? I should not want to call such a . . . friend as you by a formal title all the time."  
  
The Baron smiled to himself. "My name is Montegue. Baron Montegue Von Ulrichstein, at your service." He added an equally dashing smile. Erik couldn't help but feel the dead skin of his face lift to smile in return.  
  
**  
  
There was a small theater in the court of Kienburg. It seated only a few dozen. Most who attended were of unfathomable wealth, or very high importance; most of the time both. Montegue was seated in the very front, his face beaming in a grin. The callers gossiped mercilessly. He knew his masked friend would stun them all. As the curtain opened, his private orchestra calmed them, the lights dimmed. Erik, clad in the finest of attire, entered onto the stage. The people gasped, a little bewildered by his strange appearance, but curious nonetheless. He picked up his borrowed violin, and prepared to play his music. The Baron beamed with pride. This man was going to do wonders for his reputation. 


	8. Expectations and Rejections

The guests all commented on what a fine thing the Baron had found. He smiled haughtily at them, and offered a select few a special meeting with his prodigy. Edwin and a few others accepted gratefully, but some declined, frightened a little by Erik's strange appearance. The Baron shrugged his shoulders at them, seemingly not caring about the musician's unusual mask. In reality, though, he was passionate to see what was beneath it. The mask would bring people enough, but if the face were as hideous as he thought, would it not bring him fame as well?  
  
**  
  
Montegue picked up his fine cane, placed his top hat back upon his head, and strutted through the corridors to Erik's room. It was late, and he was sure that Erik would be tired, but he'd arranged a private concert for that night. Some very important guests from Norwand were stopping by that very evening, having heard about the masked one's talents. He grinned to himself. There was a lady at the court of Norwand who'd caught his attention on his last visit. She'd turned her nose up at him before, but perhaps, after seeing his catch, she'd pay him a visit to his quarters. His grin widened at the thought.  
  
**  
  
Erik gazed longingly out of the barred window of his room. There were endless trees beyond, and he could smell the damp pines upon the breeze. True, he'd not been treated poorly by anyone at Kienburg, but he was still a prisoner. He was expected to perform nightly, and though the man who introduced him was not a circus master, he still felt like the main attraction at a carnival of freaks and oddities. There was also the fact that he was not pleased with himself for allowing the young Baron to take advantage of him. Perhaps he'd been vulnerable, but he'd let his guard down, and now there was no escape. It was a prison of his own making. He heard the Baron enter, the light tapping of his feet echoed throughout the chamber. Erik felt himself sneer, a cold exterior began taking shape upon his exposed countenance. The young man was grinning, a look of mischief and something else graced his handsome eyes.  
  
"Erik," he began snootily, "I should like you to play tonight. There is a woman I wish to impress."  
  
"No."  
  
The Baron seemed taken aback by this unusual answer. "No? But you have to remember, I brought you here, and I wish it!"  
  
"I am tired of playing to impress your guests. Let me be. I did not wish for you to bring me here, and least of all did I wish for you to exploit the gift I possess."  
  
The Baron scoffed, "You think me some petty circus barker? And you, some masked wonder?"  
  
Erik's reply was equally stony, "You are no better than the circus barker I knew. At least he had some imagination. You are a selfish, young twit."  
  
Erik halted, slowly regretting the things he said. Before him, Montegue was turning a deep shade of crimson, anger burned hotly in his eyes. And, like Alonso, his voice was commanding.  
  
"You will play, my friend," he gritted his perfect, white teeth, "or you will pay. I promise you." 


	9. Punishment

Erik watched as the Baron stormed off. He wasn't going to play, never again for this haughty beast. Knowing his faults was one thing, but looking past them and abusing his gift was another. He sat, brooding, until a footman came to claim him for the concert. It was going to be a long night.  
  
**  
  
The tiny theatre was aglow, as it had been for countless nights, and the Baron sat in the front row. The young lady next to him squirmed each time he placed his hand upon her arm, but he only flashed her his wolfish smile, hoping that Erik would turn her head for him. His servant came swiftly to his side, and whispered discreetly into his ear. He stifled a look of anger and surprise, and rose from his seat. Excusing himself, he made a rush for Erik's room.  
  
**  
  
"Erik," the Baron's voice was hard and unforgiving. "Did I not warn you?"  
  
Standing with his back to him, Erik nodded, and threw his cloak back. "You warned me. And yet, I still insist that I will not play for pigs."  
  
This made the Baron's jaw snap shut. He growled, "Then I suppose you await your punishment?"  
  
Erik's silence provided him with the answer he needed. The Baron motioned for his footman to hand him his weapon of choice. Erik turned bravely to face him, uncertain of whether to take his punishment, or to defend himself. He knew the latter was out of the question as soon as he set eyes on the apparatus in Montegue's outstretched hand. It was a horsewhip, but there were strips of metal and glass fitted to it, giving it a primeval look. Uncivilized. The Baron ordered his servant away, and came after Erik as soon as the door was closed. Erik stood up to him only until the contraption stuck him. It was most painful, and as the Baron whipped him, clothing and flesh peeled away simultaneously. He was beaten until his back was a latticework of blood and ripped cloth, the Baron's shirtfront stained red. There was a glint of madness in his eyes that only Erik could have noticed. Though in extreme pain, he'd learned to shut off all feeling and thought; to force himself elsewhere. The Baron sensed this, and try as he might, he could not beat him fiercely enough.  
  
Exhausted, Montegue finally gave up. He dropped the whip to the ground, and stooped to sneer at Erik. Lying on the ground, he could only look up at the man, but he could see the monstrous look of horror flash across his face. During the course of the thrashing, Erik's mask had loosed from his face, and now his ruined flesh was unprotected. The Baron trailed his eyes along the parched, yellow skin, the hollow hole where a nose should have been, the jagged lip. He couldn't control his violent shaking as he stared at Erik, and he turned away from him. He vomited, then fled from the room.  
  
**  
  
The Baron's shock and disgust at what he had just witnessed was still hitting him with full force. He'd released his rarely contained madness, and the emotions were still running strong within him. There was a willingness to return to the room and beat the monster all over again. But, before he could do so, the girl he'd been sitting by earlier appeared before her. She was the tease he'd been trying to turn since meeting. Her low-cut dress, the fashion of all the courts, seemed to spark a new wildness in the unstable young man. She saw him, and rushed to him when she noticed the blood that soaked his finery. She was alone.  
  
"My goodness," her youthfulness amazed him, for he never realized that she was so young, "What has happened? I came to find you. . ." She perceived the gleam of wild abandon in his eyes, the look of a beast that would rip some small creature to shreds. He grasped her roughly by the hair, dragged her into a nearby bedroom, turning only to shut the door. 


	10. Erik's Salvation

Erik stirred. He ached all over, and there was a sharp pain in his side. Standing gingerly, he was sure that his broken rib was pressing into his lung. It was hard for him to breathe. There was a scream from another room, and Erik knew that he had to see about it. The Baron had a wild look in him. There was no real, conscious feeling in his eyes; he wasn't like Alonso or any of the others who'd ever beaten him before. The others had hated him, despised his appearance. But the Baron, he beat him simply because he could, and he got enjoyment out of it. Erik crept lightly from the room, the whip in hand. He decided it would be best to defend himself. The screams were getting louder as he moved slowly down the hall. He came to a room, the door was closed, and the screams seemed to be coming from it. He knew what was behind the door; knew that the Baron had sought vengeance on more than one.  
  
He thought, "I could leave. I could run now." All the while, his hand was turning the gilded brass knob. Inside, he heard a gasp. The room was dark, but he could see Montegue, shirtfront-unbuttoned, clothes and hair in disarray, that same maniacal expression on his face. And there was a girl, a young lady, her dress torn, her face bruised, tears streaming down her cheeks. The Baron, angered that Erik had had the will to get up from the floor after such a brutal beating, charged in his direction. Before he knew what he was doing, he struck him with the whip, sending the Baron stumbling backwards. Shaking it off, he came again, only to be sent back by another blow. Blood gushed from his lip, yet again he charged. This time, Erik took control. He raised the whip, and let it fall with as much force as he could muster. The Baron fell, sobbing, to the carpet. Erik continued to beat him, continued to raise gashes across the handsome young man's perfect face. He wanted to make him pay. Wanted to make everyone pay. All of those that had been disgusted by his face, everyone who had ever beaten him; the Baron was suffering for it. And the whip kept coming down, again and again, and Erik thought he heard laughter. What he didn't realize was that it was his own. There was also another sound, but he barely heard it. It was. . . Someone crying. It wasn't the Baron, for his cries had ceased long before. He turned toward the sound, never once halting the whip from its course. The girl, the victim, stood crying loudly, begging him to stop. Her pleas were nearly unrecognizable, but as he heard them, a shiver went through his body. The whip stopped in mid-air as he realized what he'd been doing. That look, it surely had been written all over him; one of pure, bloody passion for hurting someone. For all the times he'd ever been hurt. It sickened him, and he dropped the apparatus, wiping a hand across the blood on his face. The girl, trying to control herself, thanked him. He turned to her, and as she saw his uncovered face, she screamed. She fell to her knees, afraid of him. The Baron, shivering, lay silent on the floor, blood surrounding him. Erik narrowed his eyes. She'd stopped Erik from killing him. He left the room just as quickly as he'd entered, whispering gratitude over his shoulder. He was grateful. And, as his cloak fluttered behind him, he left the court of Kienburg. He knew; she had saved him from becoming the monster everyone had always thought he was. And he would never be the same. 


End file.
